


The Art of Courtly Love

by Ashura



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:05:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashura/pseuds/Ashura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Capellanus wrote of  love, he swore that no man could have two loves, that the new would chase away the old. If only, Arthur thought, it could ever be that simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Courtly Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sasha_b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/gifts).



_”Amor vincet omnia, et sic transit gloria mundi.”_

It began – as so many great love stories do – with a kiss. Not the passionate, private sort of kiss that a person reading such a story might expect, for those would come later. It began with the simple, chaste brush of Lancelot’s lips across the back of Arthur’s hand, as a great knight knelt before a great king and swore him fealty in all things. _By my faith I promise...._ Lancelot had repeated the words, and raised his head, and Arthur felt his heart skip as he met those dark eyes.

Perhaps, one could say, it had begun with a different kiss, when that same great king took a beautiful queen to wife. Guinevere, the giant’s daughter, stood in a shimmering golden gown with a smile like summer, and Arthur had kissed her in front of everyone and whirled her into a dance.

Certainly it could not be said that it began when Lancelot kissed Guinevere, for by that time, the story was already well underway.

When Capellanus wrote of love, he swore that no man could have two loves, that the new would chase away the old. If only, Arthur thought, it could ever be that simple. Oh, love was not necessary for marriage, everyone knew, but he had adored his queen from the moment she spoke. He had watched her laugh, captivated by her bright eyes and her smooth pale throat. Later he had kissed every inch of her skin, and instead of blushing she had laughed at him. It was a good start.

With Lancelot, there was never much laughing. He was brooding and intense, but his devotion was armour for a surprisingly fragile heart. He had begun loving Arthur as his king, and Guinevere as the lady of his lord. These were expected things, but Lancelot had not known how to stop. He loved them both so fiercely it was impossible not to return it, and no law of God or man could prevent it.

When Lancelot had come to Arthur’s room the first time, one clear midnight in high summer, he said he meant to confess. Arthur had told him to find a priest. ‘Not for this,’ Lancelot said. His eyes were dark and troubled and Arthur had not the will to refuse him. They sat down. Lancelot said he loved Guinevere, and Arthur sat quiet and kinglike and still with his mind screaming _No, no, no!_ and his fingers digging into the sides of his chair. He thought of Guinevere’s fair skin, the curve of her neck and her hip and the mischievous glimmer in her eyes and did not want anyone else to touch her. He looked at Lancelot’s sad eyes, at his sun-ruddy skin and the scratchy dark stubble on his cheeks and wanted to kiss him. He did not hear everything that was said that night – Lancelot was prone to talking too much, when he was trying to work things out, and he went on about duty and love and guilt until Arthur stopped listening. He started paying attention again when Lancelot said he was leaving.

‘No,’ Arthur said, and did not sound at all like a king, but Lancelot stopped anyway. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘You cannot leave me. You swore it.’

Lancelot looked in pain, but bowed his head. ‘So I did,’ he said.

Guinevere came to confess to him next. It was nearly autumn and the rain beat down against the castle walls like an invasion. She sat next to him and took his hand and held it in her lap. Haltingly she began, saying they had ever been honest with one another, for as well as king and queen, husband and wife, were they not friends? He said they were, of course they were. ‘And yet I cannot help it,’ she finished softly, ‘for I love Lancelot as well as I love you.’

‘It’s all right,’ Arthur answered. ‘So do I.’ Her fingers wrapped tighter around his, and she rested her head against his shoulder.

They spoke of it together, before either of them acted. Always in secret – they were speaking of sin after all, and a crime of men as well. (‘But I can hardly commit treason against myself,’ Arthur said. Guinevere touched his lips and shook her head. ‘But no one must find out if I do, for even you cannot stop what will happen then.’ ‘It cannot be treason from you either,’ Arthur said, ‘not if we both sin together.’ ‘Maybe not,’ she told him, ‘but that is not how the world will see it.’ And so Arthur swore it would be secret, as much as it was in his power to keep.)

‘Perhaps,’ said Guinevere, ‘he will not come to either of us, even if we should ask him.’

‘Which is stronger?’ Arthur asked. ‘Loyalty, or love? I think he would go to you, if it were with my blessing. Maybe not to me.’

‘Then you should ask him.’ They were in Arthur’s room, sitting on the bed. Guinevere hitched her skirt up to settle onto his lap. He took her by the hips.

‘Don’t you want to be first?’ He didn’t like the idea, but he was trying so hard to be fair. ‘It doesn’t seem right to demand it be me who comes first at everything.’

But Guinevere shook her head. ‘I would feel guilty, if he came to me and not to you,’ she said. Her body shifted a little, ever so slightly, against Arthur’s and he gripped her tighter. ‘But once he has come to you, he can hardly refuse me. We shall see if he loves us both, my dear, for if he doesn’t, then he shall not have either of us.’

Perhaps it was wrong to conspire in that way against a friend, but they thought they were doing what they must. And so Arthur waited until a chance came, when Lancelot visited his room and they sat together talking and drinking.

It was after a good deal of wine that Arthur asked him, ‘Do you love me?’

‘You are my liege lord and king,’ Lancelot answered. ‘You know I do.’

‘I am your friend, too,’ Arthur said.

‘Yes,’ Lancelot agreed. ‘That, too.’

‘Lancelot,’ Arthur began, but did not know what to say to finish, so he reached for Lancelot’s hand instead.

‘My lord,’ his best knight said.

Arthur looked up to meet Lancelot’s dark, brooding eyes, and held his gaze as he lifted that hand and held it to his lips, a mirror echo of another, long before. ‘By my faith I promise,’ he began, but Lancelot stopped his mouth with a kiss before he could finish.

That answered that, then.

Lancelot’s body was not so different from Arthur’s – broader, a finger or two shorter, and darker of complexion, but he was muscled in the same places and moved the same way. The stubble of beard he always insisted on shaving scratched Arthur’s skin and there were marks and scars over his arms and across his back. Arthur had them too, in different places, and his beard was softer, longer. Arthur kissed him and touched him and could not get enough of him. Lancelot’s mouth tasted like wine, but his eyes were bottomless and showed no sign of it, or of anything else but love. He was Arthur’s greatest knight, good at so many things, but he was powerless when it came to love. In stories like this, such people always are.

It was early morning, and Lancelot had not gone yet. He was stretched out naked on the bed, no longer asleep but not quite awake. Arthur lay against him, head resting on his chest, toying sleepily with Lancelot’s fingers.

‘You still love Guinevere, too,’ Arthur began.

Lancelot’s arm tightened around his back. ‘God help me,’ he said quietly, ‘but I love you both.’

Arthur kissed the tip of one long finger. ‘So do I,’ he said, ‘and so does she. It will be all right.’

Lancelot pulled his hand free, but it was only to brush a bit of hair from Arthur’s forehead. ‘I am not sure it will,’ he warned.

‘It will,’ Arthur said, stubborn, and kissed him. ‘ _Amor vincet omnia_. Besides, I’ll take care of you.’

Lancelot laughed, a thing that happened so seldom Arthur wished for a moment he could stop time. ‘Are you king of Paradise, then?’ he asked, rolling Arthur off his chest so he could kiss him. ‘You have the faith of a child, sometimes, Arthur, but I do envy it.’

It was still early morning, the sun was not full up. ‘Call me that again,’ Arthur pleaded, and kissed him.

Arthur knew when Lancelot went to see Guinevere. He knew because she told him. After all, they were honest with each other. He was honest too. He told her he did not want to know.

‘Are you jealous?’ she asked. He couldn’t tell if she was laughing.

Of course he was, of both of them. But he wanted them all to be happy, even for a while. They all wanted each other. It was right as it was. ‘I just don’t want to know,’ he said.

She reached up and twined her arms around his neck. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘I’m jealous too.’

‘..That helps,’ Arthur confessed. And if they both felt that way, surely Lancelot felt it even more. The thought sobered him, but this, he thought, might not be in his power to change. Perhaps there was no way to love completely without some pain.

The next thing that happened, then, should have seemed like a natural step. None of them planned it, for their daring would not have extended so far. It was Christmas night, so the king and queen held a feast. The hall was trimmed with holly and mistletoe above the doors, and a poet from the North had sung of heroes and lovers. Arthur sat in the centre of the high table with Guinevere and Lancelot on his left and his right. The stewards had brought in the second subtlety, the Blessed Virgin standing atop a map of the world with a gilded model of Camelot in her cupped hands. It was truly a masterpiece, and Arthur was as amazed as his guests. He was clapping with the others when he felt the brush of Lancelot’s thigh under the table. It may have been accidental, but when he let his hands fall again, he sought out the hands on each side. Guinevere glanced at him sideways and smiled. Lancelot squeezed his fingers, but didn’t look at him at all. Arthur loved them both so much he thought his heart would burst. A piper began to play. ‘Dance with me,’ Arthur said, and the three rose from the table as one, and then all the room was dancing.

They ended up in his room, always his room. It was the only one they wouldn’t be disturbed, because in the end it was only Arthur who could keep everyone else away. He still felt like dancing; he picked Guinevere up and whirled her just like on their wedding night, only this time Lancelot was there to catch her. She laughed, her head thrown back, and Arthur drew her in and kissed down her throat. He could feel Lancelot’s eyes on them, and so he reached for him too, and touched him while Guinevere kissed his knight’s lips.

They fell onto the bed when they became too dizzy to stand, a tangle of limbs and kisses. There was no speech, no words – only sometimes a growl or a moan, and Guinevere’s sparkling laughter. It defied explanation how well they fit together, and before long Arthur could scarcely tell where each ended and began. His breath was Lancelot’s, his kisses were Guinevere’s. He felt, for what would be the only time in his life, perfectly complete.

They lay together for hours even after they had stopped moving. Dawn slipped in through the cracks to the song of the wren-boys in the courtyard outside. Arthur sat in silence, watching the peaceful slumbering faces of his queen and his best knight, curled against him in his bed. Silently he swore, to himself and to God, that he would treasure them and keep them safe. He swore it with the innocence of a boy and the determination of a king. It was not his fault, in the end, that it was not the sort of story that ended happily, and that even in the face of love, glory would pass away.


End file.
